Visits From a Ghost
by wowstars
Summary: After The Fall, John's PTSD worsens, landing him in hospital. He falls into an almost comatose state, getting comfort only from the voice in his head. Then he gets a visit from the man who caused him to wind up in here. Sherlock/John Post-Reichenbach


_"Goodbye John..."_

The words echoed through his brain louder than any car bomb could ever be. He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head, rocking back and forth, willing it to stop. His head just felt so… _noisy_. Why wouldn't it shut up? He bangs on his forehead with the backs of his hands.

"Stop… stop… stop…"

He lets out a noise of frustration and opens his eyes only for another flashback to take over. There is water. Water everywhere. Lit up a dazzling blue. He is back at the pool. Moriarty is there, looking at his best friend in such a way it makes him want to break his neck. And then it comes. The guilt. The agony. The feeling that _he_ could have ended it, once and for all, that night. The feeling that Sherlock could still be here with him, sat firing holes into their wall, setting fire to the kitchen, leaving bits of people in various cupboards and drawers to annoy John, if John had just _thought_. He could have killed Moriarty that night - he was sure of it. But instead of Moriarty on a slab there was Sherlock rotting away in some London cemetery. And it was all his fault.

John's blinks and is aware of his surroundings once more. It's still there though, his voice. And he can't deal with it any longer.

He grabs his cane and makes his way to the bathroom.

-x-x-x-

"John," Mrs Hudson calls up to his room. "Only me. Do you fancy a cuppa?" She waits a few seconds and there is no answer. "I'll make you one. Just this once, mind you, I'm not your house keeper." She shuffles through into the kitchen and flicks on the kettle, putting the meat and butter in the fridge while she waits. She notices John's mug in the sink and gives it a quick rinse before filling it with boiling water.

The old stairs creak beneath her slippers as she goes up to John's room, taking extra care not to spill his tea. She chaps the door a couple of times before entering, frowning when he is not in his usual place on the bed.

"John, dear, I've got your tea," she calls, setting it down on his bedside table. She hears the drip of the tap in the next room and assumes he is in the bathroom. "I've left it by your bed," she calls again, going back out onto the landing. Now though, without the steam of his tea invading her nostrils, she can smell something else. It's a familiar scent, living with Sherlock all these years, but not one she'd expect now. It's cold and metallic, and her stomach jolts as she places it. She looks to her right to see the bathroom door not quite closed.

The tap drips once more.

She notices she is holding her breath as her fingers curl around the door handle.

"John, dear, I'm coming in now," she announces, knowing deep down there wouldn't be a reply. She pushes the door open. Nothing could have prepared her for the sight that met her.

She lets out a blood-curdling scream.

-x-x-x-

There's movement, lots of it. Not him though. He is _floating_ - or feels like it at least. Bright lights flash into his eyes one after another. Voices, speaking to him he thinks, but he can't be quite sure. It's so _cold_. His head feels like it is splitting in two and he groans, only to splutter and cough up more pill debris. _No_, he tells himself, _gotta keep that in_. The paramedic is encouraging him to bring it up, but his mouth is firmly shut. His stomach burns and his arms ache as he drifts back out of consciousness.

-x-x-x-

_28 days_.

28 day of this place. He knows because he is being assessed by doctors he doesn't recognise. His psychiatrist is after putting him on a Section 3, seeing as he'd done the 28 days that was Section 2 of the Mental Health Act and the only movement he'd made all month was getting up for the loo. He thought maybe he should protest - Section 3 was a long time, 6 months to be exact - but he didn't have the energy. Instead he just zoned out, he let the doctors talk at him, try for a response - he didn't care anymore.

He'd not had any contact with anyone he knew since he got here. He'd had visit requests. One from Harry, three from Mrs Hudson and two from someone whose name he hadn't recognised. He'd denied them all. He just wanted _sleep_ - preferably the kind that you didn't wake up from, but the nurses certainly weren't allowing that. He was placed on close observation when he got here, and it hadn't been lifted since. He was watched constantly, twenty-four hours a day. Even on the toilet. He refused food for his first week, only when they'd threatened to tube feed him had he given in. He refused medication - his opinion on it had always been that it was useless as it just numbed the problem, rather than treating it - so every morning he'd get pinned down and a small needle in the bottom of his back. Anti-psychotics, they'd told him. He couldn't remember which one. He knew they must be doing something, because his flashbacks were less frequent, and Sherlock's voice quieter. It was an odd comfort to him, hearing his flatmate's voice. Though distressing when he repeated his last words, the times when he would just hear _Sherlock -_ talking about a case, an experiment, a deduction - in his usual calm and collected murmur would give him the illusion he was still with him. Still alive and breathing and annoying police officers. It was good, it gave him relief, even if it was temporary.

He zones back into earth just in time to hear them reading out his section order.

-x-x-x-

"It's too dangerous."

"I _need_ to see him."

"You could be discovered. If he kicks up a fuss… He's not well. He could lash out."

"And you think I couldn't deal with that?"

A pause.

"You would, of course, need to practice your bedside manner."

"Yes."

"And it would not be just him you would have to deal with. If this is to go unnoticed, you will have to be involved with other patients, such as any other member of staff would."

"I understand that."

"This is a massive risk, you understand. If the papers, or any other unsavoury character, got wind of your return, you and John would be in _extreme_ danger."

"I won't get found out. But it's a risk I'm willing to take."

Mycroft sighs and sets down his glass of scotch.

"Very well then. It will be set up by Monday next week. I'll get the details to you by next week."

Sherlock gives his brother a nod, then stands and sweeps out of the room.

* * *

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